


In the Woods Somewhere

by jotunblood



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Enchanted Forest, Alternate Universe - Magic, Big Bad Snoke, Bisexuality, Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Relationship, Established Relationship, Minor Injuries, Minor Original Character(s), Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Finn (Star Wars), Polyamory, Rating May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-04
Updated: 2018-10-09
Packaged: 2019-07-07 01:36:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15898260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jotunblood/pseuds/jotunblood
Summary: On an excursion through the woods, Finn’s hunting party comes under attack. Fleeing through the magical barrier of King’s Gate for safety, he finds himself in the company of witches: one familiar, one decidedly not, and neither whom he’s certain he can trust.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to do something different from my usual, so here's an Enchanted Forest AU. I think you'll enjoy it!
> 
> This is another chaptered fic, so buckle up. Unlike my last, I can't promise a strict update schedule. Like before, however, I have the whole thing plotted out, so never fear: it's coming! I'm shooting for 10 chapters or less this time. 
> 
> Please let me know what you think along the way. I don’t usually do AU (or Finn's POV), so I’m 100% here for feedback :)

Deep in the woods, beyond where the citizens of the kingdom dared to roam, there lived all manner of miserable beasts. Wild hogs and wolves, half-men corrupted by magic, and witches waiting to snatch anyone foolish enough to cross the border commissioned by the King. Finn knew this, both for personal and professional reasons. 

Professionally, because he was one of the Royal Hunters who set out weekly for food and patrol. 

Personally, because when they were children a friend slipped through the trees and never came back.

Her name had been Rey, and she was a sweet girl: adventurous to a fault and shining as her name. She’d often goaded him to the forest’s edge, enticing him with tales of creeping vines, glittering flowers, and wizards waiting just out of sight. All fairy tales, of course. They were too young to be allowed into the wood, and the girl had seen no more of it than he. Still, her imagination ran wild. It was a trait that made her an excellent play partner, but one that ultimately killed her.

Finn could still remember it: low sun catching her hair as she peered back through the trees. Too short still to reach the lower branches, and dressed drearily enough to escape the notice of adults calling their children home for supper. No one saw her there; at least, no one she didn’t want to. It was her talent, to go unseen. But Finn had seen her, wide eyes and wider grin, beckoning him to follow her.

He wondered sometimes what would’ve happened if he had, but never entertained the thought long. It was too macabre. One child or two, it made no difference. What wandered blindly into the forest never returned.

Ten years had passed since Rey’s disappearance, and since then the woods had grown more terrible. Their warm edges had gone dark, deepening the shadows between the thick, gray trunks. The sweetgrass and flowers that once grew there browned, creating a barrier between it and the village. Children were no longer left unattended by it, or allowed close at all. In fact, few citizens of the kingdom willingly went near. The houses closest to the trees were abandoned, left empty in the gloom of the trees. They served now as storehouses for the weapons and provisions of those who still dared to venture inside: the King’s Hunters.

To his parent’s displeasure, Finn petitioned to join the Royal Hunters when he turned sixteen. Accompanied by several others-- among them, Poe-- Finn made the journey to the castle and submitted himself to training. It was a bitter process, the filthiest and most physically intensive year of his life, but the end of it saw him inducted. The day of his initiation, he donned his colors proudly, vowing service to the King and his people.

It had been a successful first few years. Highly successful, Finn thought, given that nearly everyone he’d joined with had already died. Of the six inducted that day, only he and Poe lived to see its third anniversary. The rest had fallen to sickness or injury, the later being far more common. The beasts they hunted were fearsome, and often took life or limb before they were brought down.

_Not really a Hunter ‘til you’ve seen blood_ , one of the elders said, the first time Finn watched someone die. His name had been Dale, and by then he was cold in Finn’s lap, bled out from the stump of an arm. The beast that’d done it lay dying yards away: a half-wolf creature, the experiment of a warlock beyond King’s Gate. _Welcome._

He’d been sick the rest of the night, unable to forget the smell of blood and fear pulsing from the fallen man. But Poe helped him through it-- a kindness Finn repaid only weeks later, when it was the other’s turn to cradle a dying man-- and by morning his resolve was strengthened. It was the risk they all took, he knew. The possibility of such a fate had never been in doubt. Throughout training, elder Hunters terrorized them with stories of maiming and death, and for some that alone was enough. Over half of the boys in Finn and Poe’s class left the program before initiation, and Finn couldn’t blame them. Had Poe not been at his side, he’d have deserted that night, pain of death be damned.

But Poe _had_ been there, and for that Finn was grateful. The two hadn’t been overly close before, but training made them friends, and blood spilt made them brothers.

_This is it_ , he'd said, squeezing Finn to his chest. The rest of the Hunters were asleep by then, leaving them to tend the fire. _The worst it’s ever going to get._

Finn scoffed, asked how he could possibly say that.

_‘Cause_ , Poe continued, _at least now we know what to expect._

The words hadn’t sat well then, but as the weeks rolled into months he’d come to accept them. Crass as he’d been, Poe was right. The shock was never again matched, and though he mourned each fallen Hunter, each loss was easier to bear. It was a harsh existence, but Finn never again questioned his choice.

They were Hunters, after all: source of nourishment, last line of defense, and to die in the woods was honorable. 

More honorable, at least, than dying out of it.

 

 

Still, honor or not, Finn didn’t like the idea of dying.

Having made it so long without doing so, he’d nearly given up expecting it. The initial year was hardest, the elders said. A new recruit’s fear made them vulnerable, and one misstep too many saw them choked. If one could survive, each following year was less fatal, and after three--

“You know,” Poe mused, tightening the straps of his saddle bag. “You and I could probably handle this ourselves.”

Finn rolled his eyes, finishing inspecting his own. The straps were tight, and the duffels flanking his horse stuffed full. Each pouch bulged with provisions: dried food and spare clothes, tinder, flint, empty bags for portioning water. Not an inch of space wasted. Were he still subject to bag checks, the work would've earn him praise.

“Don’t be stupid. You know what happens if you go alone.”

“Wouldn’t be alone. I’d have you.”

“For all the good it’d do. Remind me--” Finn paused, hooking his bow over the saddle horn. “How many men did it take to kill those boars last week?”

“Hey now,” Poe teased, brow scrunched to parody offense. “Not fair. I had the alpha on the ropes.”

“It had you. If Drakkon hadn’t thrown this axe, you’d have lost your guts.”

Even with that, it was still a miracle Poe hadn’t been gored. Last hunt had been a near disaster, and joking aside, the other man knew it. It’d shown in the ashing of his cheeks and trembling hands. Three and a half years of avoiding frostbite or death by hellbeasts, and Poe Dameron had nearly been done in by a boar.

_Goes to show_ , Drakkon spat, _you can’t get comfortable._

“Point taken.” Poe secured his own bow and patted his horse, clucking to perk its ears. “But I don’t see why we need the whole garrison for patrol.”

Finn couldn’t argue there. It seemed overcautious, considering that the garrison was comprised of sixty men and women. They rarely rode out in full force. Typically they split in half, hunting and patrolling on rotation to give each team time to rest. If thirty had sufficed in the past, Finn couldn’t see why sixty was necessary now.

“I’m sure the elders just want to be careful. We've have a lot of bad luck recently.”

Not just with the boars, but with the forest in general. As winter closed in, the forest’s sickness deepened. Each time they entered it seemed darker, tighter, as if the air were being siphoned out. They tired quicker, bickered more frequently, and once a new recruit was caught stumbling toward King’s Gate. The girl nearly crossed the enchantments-- spells paid for dearly by the Crown-- before they'd dragged her back. She was hot to the touch, wracked with fever, and spent the rest of the night sweating it out. Something terrible was gaining speed, and if the Captain wanted to bolster their numbers he wouldn't complain.

They rode out after midday, delayed by the forming of ranks. Unused to corralling such a large group, their Captain had difficulty getting them in line. Once he'd wrangled them he kicked his horse into a trot, guiding them away from camp. They rode slowly, enjoying the afternoon sun. Winter so far had been mild, no sign yet of snow, but once beneath the trees that would change. The air there was always bitter, and even their Captain, who’d grumbled about lost time, seemed loath to hurry.

Regardless, it was a short trip. Camp was barely two miles from the edge, and flat as the land was, the treeline soon came in to view. It taunted them, an ugly black line on the horizon, growing to a gnarled mass. Finn grimaced at the sight. Though he’d rode in countless times, it never failed to unsettle him. It was difficult to believe it was the same forest he’d played near as a child. In memories the trees were green, sweet smelling and tempting to nap beneath. But he supposed that had been a guise. A trick of the devils within to lure unsuspecting villagers. And it had worked. Rey’s death was a testament to that, as were the dozens since.

“Sight for sore eyes, eh?” Poe jeered, drawing Finn from his thoughts. “Nothing like coming home.”

“Your home, maybe.” Finn turned in his saddle to peer at the man, whose brow was furrowed in spite of the joke. “What is it?”

Dameron shrugged, but kept his eyes on the trees. It set Finn’s teeth on edge, and he guided their horses close.

“Don’t give me that. What do you see?”

Poe was a gifted scout, often sent ahead to find tracks. It wouldn’t surprise Finn to learn he’d spotted something.

“Nothing,” he assured. “Just a feeling.”

“Keep it down, then. You’ll scare the tender feet.”

“They’re already scared.”

Poe nodded to the clump of riders ahead, all new recruits on their first or second ride. Their horses formed a tight line, and they leaned so far in their saddles that their shoulders bumped. They peered around every few minutes to study the surrounding riders. Finn smiled when one caught him, remembering how his own heart used to hammer before entering the wood.

“So don’t make it worse. Unless you want to chase down deserters after patrol.”

“Right. Patrol.”

His jaw worked, chewing the word. It did nothing for the ache in Finn’s teeth.

“If you’ve got something to say,” he muttered, “do it now. I don’t want to have this talk inside.”

It’d only darken their moods, which needed no help. The slow pressing in of trees broke even the brightest.

“I just can’t help thinking: if thirty was good for the boars, and for that rabid pack of wolves--” He paused, shuddering at the memory, and Finn did the same. The wolves had been vicious, taking down three seasoned hunters before they were killed. “It doesn’t make sense. Why gather the whole garrison for, what, three hours?”

Less than on a fair day, and no more on even the worst. Finn wouldn’t confirm it, though. His friend was in a strange mood, and he didn’t want to encourage it.

“My guess? It’s because of the boars and wolves. We got away from both by the skin of our teeth. Captain Neema is probably just playing safe.”

“Maybe.”

Poe straightened, tugging his reigns to part their horses. Finn followed suit, not wanting to raise alarm. New recruits often chattered near the forest, but seasoned members rarely did. It was a distraction reserved for camp. Unless they saw something worth reporting-- a flicker of light, or the flat blackness of something shifting in the dark-- they preferred to keep quiet.

The forest, after all, was the home of barely checked witches. If a man wasn’t careful, he’d be swallowed, teeth and bones.

 

 

In hindsight, Poe's mood should’ve been warning enough. The two had been riding partners since their first trek, and even in the early days, the man had never been so cryptic. His will was iron even in the face of death. The sturdiness made him both a good partner and friend. That night, however, with Poe’s gaze shifting anxiously, Finn found it difficult to center.

That wasn’t entirely Dameron’s fault. Winter always signaled a change for the worst. The powers beyond King’s Gate drew strength from the cold, and as the sky coaled the trees came alive. Despite loss of foliage, paths were harder to find and sutured shut behind them as they marched. The trunks breathed, expanding to block the safest ways, and the bare canopy reached to blot the sun. The forest followed them, predicting their trajectory, or perhaps remembering it. Finn wasn’t sure which possibility was worse.

There was a stillness there, too, that was wholly unnatural. Loss of birdsong was expected, but the total deadness made Finn’s ears ring. No wind whistled through the branches, and fallen leaves didn’t crunch underfoot. Even when he dismounted and felt twigs snap beneath his boots, Finn heard no noise. Often after he would call Dameron’s name, only to assure his hearing hadn’t failed. 

The echo of his voice after, meant to be soothing, only made the quiet worse. What lived here, he wondered, that could swallow sound? Why did it need to?

So far that ride Finn had resisted temptation, though with every soundless step his resolve waned. It didn’t help that night had fallen-- earlier than normal, he thought miserably--, and the moonlight was choked by trees.

It also didn’t help that they’d been marching for five hours, with no indication that they’d be stopping soon.

“We shouldn’t still be riding,” he whispered to Poe. “We should’ve camped at sundown if Captain Neema thought we couldn’t finish patrol.”

“We did finish.”

“What?”

“Look around.” Poe gestured with his lantern. “What bend is this?”

Finn took as thorough a survey as darkness allowed. “Eight, I guess.”

“You guess right. Only patrol doesn’t include eighth bend, does it?”

It didn’t. The usual round only took them up to six. Everything beyond was wildlands, ventured into only to follow a hunt or dangerous creature. Even then, only at the utmost end of need. There were depths unplumbed the farther one rode; it was best not to dive too deep.

“Maybe,” Finn said slowly, “Captain Neema didn’t notice?”

The excuse must’ve sounded as ridiculous to Poe as it did to himself, because the man laughed. 

“Don’t be stupid. You know something’s not right.”

“Hey!”

The men jolted, heads whipping in tandem to track the hissing voice. It belonged one of the senior riders: Kida, a scarred, stern woman, who in their early days knocked their skulls for chatting. Though it had been well over two years since she’d hit either of them, her snips still chilled their blood. 

“Sorry,” Finn whispered, lowering his voice to match her tone.

The woman nudged her horse, working it between the two of theirs. Finn and his partner exchanged looks, but didn’t try to escape. If she meant to chastise them, running would only make it worse.

“Keep it down, alright? You may know the trail, but they don’t.” She nodded to the new recruits ahead. “Don’t scare more men than necessary.”

“More?” Dameron repeated. “Who else has noticed?”

Kida scowled. “You’re not the only one with eyes, son. We’ve all noticed.”

“And no one knows why we’re still going?” Finn asked.

“As far as anyone knew, this was a standard patrol. There’s obviously been a miscommunication.”

Poe scoffed. “A lie, you mean.”

The woman’s eyes cut to Dameron. “The two aren’t overly different, so mind who you sass.” Kida paused, breathed in through her nose, then determinedly set her jaw. “Look, this is a bad place even in full daylight. So keep together, keep your wits, and for fuck’s sake: keep quiet.”

The woman gave them a sharp look then tugged her reigns, falling in line behind them. Finn watched over his shoulder, waiting for her to be well enough away before sidling next to Poe. 

“What do you think that means?”

Poe shrugged, eyes hopping around the trees: the trucks, the canopy, the branches just within reach. Scanning for threat, Finn knew. The fact that made his gut turn.

“I don’t know,” the other man said finally. “But Kida’s right. Whatever’s going on, we’re sixty strong. If we stick together, we’ll be alright.”

Which was a good enough plan, of course, up until the moment it wasn’t.

 

 

If asked later to explain what had happened that night, Finn wouldn’t have been able to do it. The swiftness of the attack, paired with the darkness and confusion it inspired made it impossible to parse out details. What few Finn discerned were vague, and not overly useful.

First, their assailant wasn’t human.

Second, it had been tracking them. Likely for several bends, unless the targeted initial strike was coincidental. It hit their middle ranks, tearing through the new recruits like paper. If it was an accident, it was an unhappy one. If it was intentional-- well, Finn didn’t want to think about that.

Third, their attacker wasn’t alone. They might have stood a chance if it was. There wasn’t a poor shot among them, and taking down one beast would’ve been possible. When the second came barreling through the trees, however, then a third and fourth, the likelihood of success dropped drastically. 

When two more came up the rear, taking Kida and her support out by the throat, it plummeted to near impossibility.

The creatures ran like smoke, slashing the legs of horses as they went. Those that weren’t pinned beneath their mounts rolled to their feet, taking up bows and swords. They hastily lit torches, hoping to get a visual on their opponents. It didn’t work. The pack was quick, avoiding their light with ease. Now and then a limb flitted by, though only to strike someone down. Finn’s first and only glimpse came before his own attack. A huge, ugly paw breached the light with claws extended. Their razor edge snagged his arm, tearing it open, and Finn wailed. Dropping his sword, he slipped back into the group, no good now for anything but staunching blood.

The pack picked them off expertly after that, dodging arrow and blade. It took only a few minutes to thin the Hunter’s numbers and set a panic in those left standing. Their shots became erratic, defenses aimed at nothing as they spun. The smell of blood was thick, blooming like a beacon. If they didn’t escape soon, they’d find themselves fighting wolves as well.

Scenting danger, Neema cussed and called for the survivors to retreat. The dwindling group hesitated, casting one another miserable looks.

“Our dead,” one dared, “We can’t leave them.”

“We can,” Neema said. “And we will. Their weight would slow us down.”

“But sir--”

“Do you want to die here?” The girl’s jaw clicked shut, and she shook her head. “Then use the next break to scatter and meet back at base. We’ll come back for the dead in daylight.”

_If there’s anything left of them_ , Neema didn’t say, but the implication was clear.

It didn't matter, Finn thought. The chances of making it to the next bend were slim, let alone back to base. The creatures were quick, and without horses there was no real hope of escape. It’d be better to fight to the end, take as many down as they could in the process, and hope someone came for their corpses. It was their duty to die, something they’d sworn, and a fate they’d known was possible.

Still, the gory stench activated something primal, and at the Captain's second urging the survivors broke rank. Scattering to confuse the pack, some following the path while others slipped between the trees. Preferring the latter-- the path still stank of men, and tracking them on it would be easier-- Finn bolted for the opposite side, diving through an opening in the brush.

He didn't scan for Poe in the retreat, or look for his leathers among the dead. Practicality, Finn told himself. The search would waste time, and was a pointless sentiment either way. The best he could hope for was seeing him back at base, and if he didn’t, he’d hope the man’s death had been painless.

In the hours that followed, Finn regretted the choice. He should've found Dameron, if possible, and followed wherever he ran. Poe had always been better at navigating, and with him Finn might not have made so many wrong turns.

With him, Finn might not have found himself at the entrance of King's Gate, miles from the safety of camp.

Exhausted, still bleeding, and with the howl of his pursuers closing in, Finn came to a halt before the imposing structure. Its mouth yawned, a dark and open throat. There was no door. There didn't need to be. A complex layering of spells kept the witches inside. The King paid dearly for such protection, and the investment had thus far paid off. While citizens of the kingdom could move through as they pleased, those beyond it were sealed away. Or they had been, for a time. 

Could spells deteriorate? Finn didn’t know, but these seemed to be doing just that. Initially there'd been no incidents, the barrier strong enough to swallow what was thrown at it. Long years of beating were wearing it thin, though. Each winter was more devilish than the last, never reaching a plateau. Finn often worried one wouldn’t come, or if it did, that it wouldn’t be until after the prisoners broke free.

He shivered, from that thought and the one that followed. Backtracking wasn't an option. Not with his pursuers so close. He knew what he had to do, though the dread of it gummed his knees. If he passed through the Gate, the beasts would have to give up. He didn’t know much about the barrier’s mechanics, but he did know it interrupted magic. If they were conjured as he suspected, they couldn’t pass through without taking damage. It would give him time to hide, to wait for daylight before continuing. Not the most comfortable plan, but currently the only viable one.

Steeling himself, and giving the forest at his back a final glance, Finn stumbled to the doorway. He lingered there a moment, feeling the prickle of _something_. Electric, crawling, almost sentient. Magic, he supposed, and he hated it.

Shuddering and feeling exposed, he hurried through. The dance on his skin died once he passed, leaving only gooseflesh in its wake, and memory. Hoping to forget it, he stumbled on in darkness, searching for a hollow tree to wait in.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In retrospect, Finn should’ve known better than to hope for luck beyond the Gate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’re back! Apologies for the delay. I’m knee deep in projects, so I’m a little slow. All chapters are planned though, so never fear! It’s on the way.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading!

In retrospect, Finn should’ve known better than to hope for luck beyond the Gate. 

The dark, which outside had been suffocating, was blinding within. Only the scantest moonlight breached through to the floor. It pooled every few hundred feet, deepening the shadow between. Even if he’d been familiar with the path, navigation would've been miserable.

It didn't help that his injury was getting worse. Though the beast’s claws cut deep, there was no pain in the wound; only an alien numbness. Initially he'd assumed adrenaline kept it at bay. Now, however, he suspected something more sinister. No ache pulsed from the gash, and more of the surrounding flesh was giving way to needles. The limb felt dead, unnaturally cold, and a strange mood mounted as it spread. His vision tunneled, heart tripping wildly behind his ribs, and intrusive, fae thoughts wormed through his head. They urged him to dig into the wound, deepen it with his fingers or a stick, or to abandon the path altogether. Whatever the beasts had been, there was no denying now they were enchanted. Their maker intended their touch to be lethal, and sealed their prey’s fate with a curse.

Ignoring the thought and spreading deadness, Finn stumbled on. His boots caught in roots, slowing his march, but he kept moving. He had to. His original pursuers might not have followed, but who knew what had picked up his scent since. Unless he stumbled upon a healer-- and here in the bleak heart of nowhere, how likely was that?-- his chances of survival were low enough. There was no sense in tanking them by waiting for a predator.

So he forced himself on, fighting fatigue and the growing desire to pitch into the briars. Squinting through gloom, he searched for a hollow tree, a cluster of stone, an abandoned Hunter's hut, anything that’d give shelter until sunrise. As for what came after...well, he’d worry about that then. For now, his only hope was to see morning.

But time in the forest was strange. Maybe even nonlinear, because more than once Finn thought he saw the sky going pink. The stars would wane, giving way to dawn, before night clouded over once more. The moon paled and brightened like a pulse, and after a while, Finn stopped trying to watch to. Whether it was a trick of the curse or thirst bloating his tongue, night seemed determined to outlive him. 

The longer he walked without direction, the more certain he became that it would.

When the numbness breached his chest, Finn nerves began to spike. He was going to die here, in the gut of the forest, and one would come looking for his body. When what remained of the Hunters collected the corpses from Eighth Bend, they’d assume his was taken by wolves. There'd be no funeral, no grave, no memory. He'd rot where he fell, have his bones picked by birds. At best, he thought bitterly. At worst, they'd be taken by witches, ground up for potions or enchanted to make the next mindless, unholy--

“You’re a long way from the Gate.”

Finn cussed. It’d been hours since he’d heard a voice, and the crack of it tripped his steps. His boot caught a root and he stumbled, but righted himself quickly to peer back the way he’d come. The path behind him was empty, as was the way ahead when he spun to check that. There was rustling in the briars, but Finn didn’t bother to check there. It was too dark to see through them, and it could only be animal, anyway. The thorns were poisonous to men.

“Hello?”

“Hello.” The voice-- a man’s, Finn was certain-- paused. “Do the others know you’re here?”

“What others?”

The man sighed, sounding close. Finn had to look back again to assure himself he was alone. 

“The Hunters.”

He tightened his grip on his injured arm. “What makes you think I’m a Hunter?”

“Your leathers.” Finn tensed. How close was the stranger, that he could see his clothes? “Besides, no one else is foolish enough to pass through the Gate.”

“It wasn’t my first choice.”

“No?” Another shift in the briars. “What drove you to it?”

Finn chewed his lip and tried again to locate the man. He must be close, but there was no suggestion of a body on either end of the path. The flat black of night broke around nothing, and the occasional dapple of moonlight held only debris.

“Show yourself,” he said in lieu of answer, and hoped to sound commanding.

It fell flat apparently, because the request was met with a curt laugh.

“You're on my land. I advise you not to press your luck.”

 _My land._ A local, then, and most certainly a witch. Finn had suspected as much, but having it confirmed spiked his pulse.

“I don't have luck to press.” Which, of course, was true. He was exhausted, parched, and slipping into delirium as the curse took hold. The deadness had reached the root of his neck; any higher, and Finn knew he wouldn't recover. “Just come out. I'll tell you whatever you want.”

It was a poor bargain, and hardly worth the witch's time. The man relented anyway.

“You’re particular for someone so lost,” he muttered. “But, if you like.”

The briars to Finn's left shook, vines tearing free of each other with a fleshy squelch. He stumbled back, gaping at the opening being created. It wasn't being cut, or even ripped by hand. This was something else. _Witchcraft_ , his mind supplied, and his tongue went sour.

Terrified of what would step out but knowing it was pointless to turn, Finn held his ground. He swayed on the spot, fatigue and the curse working in tandem against him, and hoped that whatever stepped out was feeling generous. Grim as his prospects seemed, Finn hadn't given up yet. If there was any chance of getting home, he'd take it.

But it wasn’t a beast that stepped out. It was a witch, certainly-- the sourceless ball of light in his upturned hand confirmed that--, but not the hideous thing he expected. He was a human, unspliced and massive. The briars split wide around him, and he had to duck to dodge a low branch. Once on the path he straightened, drawing to his full height. The stranger was towering and broad, his face a mismatch of features speckled with moles. Handsome, not that it mattered. He was a danger either way.

The man’s mouth quirked. “Are you hoping to flatter your way to safety?”

It took Finn a moment to process the question, but when he did, his gut knotted. The man had been in his mind. He’d heard of the ability, had been warned against it as a child: _Put your thoughts behind a wall._ He’d always imagined that such an invasion would hurt, or at the very least be uncomfortable. That this man had done it without alerting him was unsettling. He wanted to draw back from the stranger, reprimand him for the intrusion, but knew neither was wise.

“I’m hoping to live through the night.”

“Then you’ve come to the wrong place. The Forest isn’t kind to strangers.”

Finn scoffed. He knew that. “Like I said: wasn’t my first choice.”

The stranger hummed and edged closer, his light flooding Finn’s feet.

“So why did you make it?” The man paused, wetting his lips. “You still haven’t said.”

“My party and I-- we were attacked on patrol.”

“By what?”

“I don’t know. Whatever it was moved in a pack, though, and was good with moving targets.” He gave his injured arm a squeeze, hoping for a centering shock of pain. Nothing. The limb was dead, and growing colder. The witch’s eyes tracked the movement, but he didn’t interrupt. “Most were killed, some injured. Everyone that could scrambled for base.”

“What you were trying to do, I take it.”

Finn’s mouth twisted in a humorless grin. “I know: wrong turn. My partner’s better at navigating off trail, but there wasn’t time to buddy up.”

Or proof that Poe was even still alive, but he wouldn’t say that.

The witch hummed, eyes still on Finn’s arm. The hand controlling the ball of light twitched, fingers curling in thought. He didn’t speak for a while, seemingly lost in thought. It tightened the coil in Finn’s gut, and not for the first time, he wished he had the strength to run. But what remained of his energy was being funnelled into maintaining balance. The numbness had stalled its march at his neck, and was working down instead. It dripping down his ribs, settling into his flank. He’d collapse when it hit his leg, and after that be easy prey.

“You should’ve said something,” the witch said suddenly, dragging Finn from the thought.

“What?”

“Your injury.” 

He lifted his light to cast on Finn’s arm. When it hit, the orb flared green, and the man’s mouth turned down. He halved their distance in a single stride, and Finn stumbled back on instinct. The witch halted, holding up a hand.

“I mean no harm.” Finn didn't believe it, but didn't move when the man stepped again. He didn't want the stranger to think he could cow him. “But you must have guessed that wound is cursed.”

“That's why I need a healer,” Finn said, working through the stiffness in his jaw. It was climbing again, gumming his speech. “If I can get back to the village--”

The witch cut him off with scoff. “You'll be dead before you reach the Gate.”

“If you're suggesting I wait here to die--”

“I'm suggesting you seek help elsewhere.”

Finn laughed, echoing the other man’s earlier derision.

“Yea?” He chewed his lip, desperate to keep his jaw moving. “Let me guess: you know a guy.”

“My wife, actually. She’s an accomplished healer.”

The word knocked Finn’s balance, because who knew something so mundane as marriage existed here? Had he courted or traded for her? More likely the former. His clothes were worn, patched over several seasons. He wouldn’t have the wealth, and besides: he was handsome. Finn doubted he’d ever had to compete for attention, much less pay for it.

“Who isn't here.” The man shook his head. “So I'd have to follow you off trail, and hope you aren’t a liar.”

The man tongued the point of one tooth. “I realize how it sounds.”

Finn snorted. It _sounded_ like the stranger thought he was a fool. Following the path had been a risk; letting himself be guided from it was suicide. Of course, in his current condition, death was likely either way. In his current condition, Finn would be lucky to make it another twenty minutes.

“How do I know?” he asked, and the man cocked his head. “That you aren’t trying to trick me.”

“Does it matter? You’d be dead, regardless.”

Finn grimaced. Was he joking? “Of course it matters.”

The man huffed, half weary and half annoyed, and toyed with the light in his hand. His fingers flexed, spinning the orb, and the putrid green bled out.

“If you’re concerned, ask for sanctuary. The border of my land isn’t for several more miles; it’d give you wide berth of protection.”

Finn wet his lip. He hadn’t considered that. “I didn’t know witches honored sanctuary.”

The man scrunched his nose, looking offended, but smoothed out the expression quickly. “I’m not an animal. Ask, or don’t; time isn’t on your side.”

If nothing else, that was true. Finn’s knees trembled under his weight, and his jaw was nearing unworkable. Turning back wasn’t an option. So, swallowing mistrust, Finn met the other’s gaze.

“Sanctuary. Please.”

“Granted. Now--” He moved in, snatching Finn’s uninjured arm. Though he tensed, Finn didn't resist, allowing the man to lace their fingers. “My home is through the thicket, and as you’re in no condition to walk: you may want to close your eyes.” 

He smirked, the expression odd on his mournful face, and Finn wondered if he’d made a mistake. 

 

 

He must have lost consciousness, or had it taken from him, because when Finn next woke it was morning.

He didn’t feel better, necessarily. If anything, he felt worse. The deadness that’d threatened to overtake him was gone, replaced by a deep, pulsing ache. It fanned out from his arm, licking his flank and neck. He laid still a while, adjusting to it, not yet daring to open his eyes. The light through his lids was soft, but stoked a headache all the same. It wouldn’t do to make himself ill.

Breathing slow through his nose, Finn tried flexing his fingers. They were stiff but workable, as was his wrist and elbow. He repeated the test with his leg, rolling his ankle and bending his knee. Both of those seemed functional as well. No permanent damage had been done. Given how close he’d come to death, Finn knew that was lucky.

Grunting from the effort, he worked his elbows beneath him and tried to sit. It was a bad plan, made evident by the shoot of pain up his spine. He collapsed back onto the sheets with a groan. The curse was staunched, but it seemed the aftershocks were unavoidable.

Drawing shuddering breaths, Finn finally cracked his eyes. Blinking to filter light, he surveyed his surroundings. He was in a hut of some sort: a single room lined with shelves and furs and gaping windows. Light flooded through, angles made odd by warped glass. It warmed the small space, as did the corner hearth. A fire was going, billowing smoke through the chimney and heating a vat of something medicinal, by the smell.

Knowing what to expect now, Finn steeled himself to sit. Comfortable though the bed was, he couldn’t stay in it. He needed to strengthen his legs, ask for water and medicine, and prepare for the journey home. The witch’s help was appreciated, and he’d pay however the man saw fit, but he’d been away too long. Given how the night had ended, his brothers would assume him dead. He couldn’t hope to beat the news home, but if he hurried, he could spare his friends unnecessary pain. 

Slowly, giving his limbs time to adjust, Finn worked back onto his elbows. His injured arm trembled, refusing to take weight, and he had to rely on the other for balance. His gut rolled from the upset, but after a moment, it settled. Thankful he hadn’t gotten sick, Finn pushed himself upright.

“Hello?” Finn called, the word cracking at its end. He bit his tongue, swallowed spit, and tried again. “Hello?” 

He strained his ears for an answer, but none came. The area was silent, apart from windsong through an open window. Ignoring his body’s protests, Finn angled to look through it. It overlooked a meadow lit with cold sun. It was broken by mounds of earth; the dwindling remains of a fall garden. Was the witch tending it? If he could get on his feet, maybe--

“I wouldn’t try it,” came a voice from the corner, and in spite of its gentleness, Finn jolted. “You aren’t well.”

His attention cut to the source, and Finn saw there was a woman at the hearth. A woman who had most certainly not been there before. Perched on the flagstones, she busied herself with peeling a large, pale root. She was dressed like the man who’d rescued him-- patched pants, an old tunic, and boots too worn for winter-- but her face was kinder. Her cheeks were round and tan, offset with bright eyes and a genuine, open smile. She looked sweet, and familiar somehow. He’d seen a smile like that before.

“Do you live here?” he asked.

She nodded, quartered the root, and dropped the segments into the vat. Finn waited for her to expound, but she only pulled another root from her shirt. She rubbed it clean, returned to peeling, and left him to carry the conversation.

“There was a man earlier. Where is he?”

“He’ll be along.” She tossed a long peel into a bucket by her foot. “Do you need him?”

Not particularly, but he’d like to see him in daylight.

“He found me in the forest. He saved me.”

“I saved you, actually. Ben has a good heart, but healing isn't his strong suit.”

 _Ben._ The witch, he assumed, though he wouldn't have guessed. All the most illustrious witches had names that tripped the tongue, and 'Ben' was glaringly ordinary. That would've been an advantage in the days before the Gate, would've allowed him to come to the village without raising alarm. If he’d even been old enough for such a thing. His rescuer hadn’t looked much older than himself; if that were true, he’d have been only been a child when the Gate was finished.

“Are you his wife?” Finn asked. The woman's brow quirked, and he hurried on. “He told me his wife was a great healer.”

“If that's what he said.”

Whether she was agreeing to being married or a skilled healer was unclear, but Finn understood the hesitance. The relationship between those in the forest and village had always been strained, and once the Gate was erected, it only worsened. She and Ben might not have been willing to let him die, but it was unlikely they'd trust him with details.

“Well, thank you. Both of you. If he hadn't come when he did--” Finn flexed his injured arm, gritting his teeth. “--he would've tripped over me later.”

Finn imagined it: the large, dreary man stumbling over his remains. He gave a short, grim laugh, and the woman's mouth turned up.

“You always were funny.”

He cocked his head at that. “What do you mean?”

“You don't recognize me?” The woman looked down at the root in her hand, her smile flagging. “Well, that’s alright. I shouldn’t have expected you to.”

Before Finn could wheedle more from her, the door to the hut opened. It distracted them both, though Finn more violently. He jolted, rekindling the pain in his side. The woman tutted when he groaned, and the source of the commotion peeked around the door with a doleful expression.

“I’m sorry,” the witch-- _Ben_ \-- muttered. “I didn't expect you to be awake. You’ve been asleep for some time.”

Finn swallowed hard. He wasn’t sure he wanted an answer to the question that came next.

“How long?”

“A week.” Ben ducked inside, shutting the door behind. “I wasn’t sure you’d wake again.”

His gut lurched. That was long enough for the survivors to return, collect the fallen, and assume him dead. Long enough for them to report back, and for funerals to be arranged. How many of his friends had been buried, and who? Kida, Hannah, Poe? Finn felt faint again, unbalanced; it weren’t for the wall at his side, he’d have collapsed. Sensing the drop, Ben hurried to the bed. He knelt, fished under the frame, then resurfaced with a fat waterskin. Uncapping it, he brought it to Finn’s lips. A few drops smeared the rim, and it wasn’t until they touched him that Finn realized he was parched.

“Drink. You’ll feel better.”

The instruction was hardly necessary. He ducked his head, taking deep, greedy pulls. It settled heavily in his gut, but he didn’t care. He was more thirsty than he ever remembered being, and if the other man let him, he’d empty the skin. But Ben drew back, tutting when Finn tried to chase him. Placing a hand on the the uninjured arm, he guided him back to the wall.

“You’ll make yourself ill,” he warned.

Finn could’ve laughed. He was already ill. But he didn't try to move again. Ben's weight wasn't on his injured side, but it ached all the same.

“I need to get back,” he said, wiping water from his chin.

“I understand. However--” Ben recapped the waterskin and tucked it away. “You're in no condition to travel.”

Having anticipated the answer, Finn shot back. “I wasn't when you brought me here, either. Can't you use magic?”

“Like when I brought you here, you mean?” Finn nodded, and the man sighed. “In short, no.”

“Why not?”

“It's exhausting, for starts. Carrying my own weight that many miles is a challenge; adding yours would make it nearly impossible. And if I could get you to the Gate, what then?” The witch held up his hands, miming a barrier. “I can't pass through, and your chances of making it home unaided are miserably low.”

Finn tried finding flaw in the logic, but it was no use. Ben was right. He couldn't even sit without pain.

“Ok,” he relented. “How long until I'm healed?”

Ben deferred to the woman at the hearth. Her eyes roved, brow knitting in concentration. The expression was as familiar as her smile, and Finn struggled to place it. She recognized him, but where from? The only witch in the village recently had come over the mountains to seal King's Gate, and that was nearing two decades ago. She'd have been a child then.

That left few options, none of which were comforting. She could frequent the edge of the Gate, watch the Hunters and spy on conversation. That, or she was a mind reader, and leafed through Finn's memories while he slept. That last was particularly unsettling, but Finn suppressed a shudder. Her attention was fixed too sharply for it to escape her notice. 

“This is a guess, understand,” she said finally. “Until I check again, I can't be sure.” She waited for Finn's nod before continuing. “A month.”

His shock must have read clear, because she hurried on.

“Maybe. It’s all guesswork until I know the curse's full effect.”

Finn wet his lips, considering his response carefully. He didn't want to offend the woman, or Ben. They were both undoubtedly powerful.

“I appreciate your hospitality, but I can't be here that long.” He gestured to the open window and the dreary clearing beyond. “The snows will be starting soon, and getting out after will be impossible.”

Even if that weren't a concern, time was still precious. After a month of believing him dead, it'd take a long interrogation to convince his fellow Hunters he wasn't a fraud. Knowing some of their methods, he'd rather avoid that.

“As I said,” the woman continued kindly, “it's only a guess. For all I know, you'll be ready in a week.”

Finn grimaced. That was still too long, but what could he say? Arguing with a healer rarely worked.

“When can you do the exam?”

“Tomorrow would be best.”

More time in limbo, Finn thought, but he didn’t protest. Resolving to submit to her care, he settled more comfortably in bed. He adjusted the pillows at his back and leaned against the wall. The shift tore at his side, and he breathed raggedly through the pain. Once it dissipated, he returned his attention to the woman. She’d finished quartering the roots, and was now stirring the vat in the hearth. The medicinal scent flared with each pass, acrid and hard. Finn’s nose scrunched, but she hardly seemed effected.

“In the meantime,” she said after a while, “you should rest.”

He snorted. “I’ve rested plenty.”

Still knelt by the bed, Ben shook his head. “She only means you shouldn’t leave. Otherwise, you’re free to do as you like.”

Their ideas of freedom seemed to differ. Before he could say as much, however, Ben carried on.

“We have food and drink, a wash basin, and several dozen books. As our guest, all of these are available to you.” Bracing on the bed, Ben drew to his feet. “And if none of that interests you, we can entertain each other.”

“How so?”

The man shrugged. “I have questions, as I’m sure you do. And as I understand, it’s been some time since the two of you--” He paused, gesturing between the woman and Finn. “--last spoke. You must have catching up to do.”

Ah, that. How could he have forgotten?

“I think there’s been some mistake,” he said carefully. “Unless you know how to slip the Gate, there’s no way we could have met. Not recently, in any case.”

“No mistake, and it wasn’t recent.” A clang echoed from the hearth, and the woman turned back to the room. Gathering her tunic, she wiped steam from her face. “Maybe a name would help?”

Finn hadn’t considered asking for that. Witches were careful with their names, and he hadn’t expected to hear hers. 

“It might.”

The woman gave it a last moment of consideration, then nodded. “Rey,” she said. “We used to lived together in the village.”

Finn stared, waiting for the woman to rescind. Because that-- well, it wasn’t possible. Rey was a child when she disappeared; if fully grown, trained Hunters died in the forest, what hope was there for her? It must be a trick, a memory she plucked from his mind while he slept. When the woman didn't so much as blink, however, Finn was forced to consider she was at least playing at sincerity.

“You're joking,” he said, giving her an out, but the woman shook her head. “Then you're lying. Rey wouldn't have survived this long.”

If she was offended, it didn't show. “I wouldn't have without help. You know something about that now.”

He tongued the back of his teeth. “Look, I appreciate your help, but I'd rather you not--”

“I'm not lying,” she interrupted, voice stern. “I know how it sounds, but I'm being honest.”

“Can you prove it?”

“I can try. Will you let me?”

Finn held her gaze, scanning for signs of deceit. Finding nothing, his attention shot to Ben. The man was leaned against the wash basin, expression just as unreadable. Peeved, Finn turned to the woman again.

“Fine,” he sighed, reaching up tousle his hair. It felt stiff and frazzled. He needed to tend it, and certainly needed to bathe. But if it meant seeing the end of this half cocked fib, that could wait. “Nothing else to do, right?”

The woman's careful expression broke, her mouth turning up at the edges. “Not really.”

“Let’s hear it, then.”

If nothing else, he thought, it’d take his mind off the pain.

**Author's Note:**

> No Kylo and Rey in this chapter, but never fear! They're coming up next. I just needed to set up the stage first.


End file.
